Eleazaras had been very near the Cishaurim's surprise descent. Beset by Fanfarokar and Seokti, the High Heresiarch himself, he too could do no more than sing Ward after Ward. The Heresiarch hung over half-windows directly before him, his asps curved to watch the surrounding ruin, his figure bleached white by his impossible dispensations. Fanfarokar a.s.sailed him from the right, shielded in the crotches of a ruined tabernacle. The words. The words! The Grandmaster bent all his craft and cunning to the words, both silent and spoken. The world beyond his defences was rocked and blasted by deafening light. He sang and he sang to keep his narrow circle safe.

He had not the luxury of despair.

Then a moment of miraculous respite. The world went dark save for the wicked glow of the fires. Through the whoosh and crackling, Eleazaras heard a horn, lonely and crude, crying out over the fields of ruin. All, sorcerer and Cishaurim alike, peered about in blinking confusion. Then Eleazaras saw them, demon-red in the gloom, a.s.sembled in a long line across the broken ground: the Thunyeri, their black armour sheened in blood, their cornsilk beards tousled by the wind of great fires burning. He saw the Circ.u.mfix, black on red, pinned to the standard of Prince Hulwarga.

Men of the Tusk, come to save them.

Ma.s.ses of Kianene hors.e.m.e.n encompa.s.sed the fields before them, line after rumbling line of them, trotting directly toward the ruined aqueduct. Waiting with b.u.t.ted spear and hoisted shield, the Men of the Tusk watched them, marking the standards of foes now well known. The Khirgwi tribes, bent on completing the work of the desert. The Grandees of Nenciphon and Chianadyni, who had suffered so terribly beneath the walls of Caraskand. The Girgashi of King Pilaskanda, leading some two dozen of their dread mastodons. The survivors of Gedea and Shigek under Ansacer. The long-suffering hors.e.m.e.n of Eumarna and Jurisada under Cinganjehoi, who time and again had driven the Inrithi before him. And beneath the Padirajah's own banner, the fearless Coyauri, the ringlets of their mail gleaming gold where open sky found them.

All that remained of a proud and fierce nation, come for a final reckoning.

To the left of the Inrithi, over the heart of the city, smoke trailed like gauze in water, obscuring the First Temple and the Sacred Heights. Lights glowered and flickered from within, glimpses of brilliance through rags of black. Booms and thunder broke across the distances, more fell than the pulse of heathen drums.

The braided Nangaels began singing first, then the Numaineiri, one of the Warrior-Prophet's unearthly hymns. Soon the entire Inrithi line was awash with deep warrior voices, singing We, the sons of past sorrow, We, the heirs of ancient trow, Shall raise glory to the morrow, And shall deliver fury to the now ...

The Kianene quickened to the pace of crashing cymbals, rank after rank of them, roping field and pasture with dark colour. Then suddenly the cohorts were racing as though one against another. Riding at the fore, the Sapatishahs thrust their scimitars high and cried out. Their Grandees and the fiercest of their kinsmen answered, and soon all howled in outrage and injury.

So many wrongs suffered. So many deaths unavenged.

The ground swept beneath them. Not fast enough. Not fast enough.

Men wept for awe and hatred. And it seemed the Solitary G.o.d heard them ...

The Skilura Aqueduct stretched before them, a perfect line that ran from city to horizon, long tracts of it intact, arches piled across arches, and sections completely collapsed. Crowded between the ruined pilings and about the scree, ranks of the Inrithi barricaded its foundations, a wall of shields and wicked men. The distance closed. The moments thinned to impossibility. For a heartbeat, song warred with inarticulate clamour ...

We shall raise glory to the morrow?

Then all the world erupted.

Lances snapped. Shields cracked. Some horses shied and reared, while others bulled through. Men stabbed and hooked. Song and cry both faltered, and shrieks claimed the sky. From the heights of the aqueduct, Inrithi archers rained incessant ruin. Others heaved blocks and stones onto the heaving ma.s.ses below. Here and there, heathen burst through to the far side, where the waiting Tydonni and Ainoni knights instantly charged into them. Bloodshed and melee seethed along the length of the Inrithi line.

"Even the Dunyain," Moenghus said, "possess vestigial versions of these weaknesses. Even me. Even you, you, my son." my son."

The implication was clear. Your trial has broken you Your trial has broken you.

Was this what had happened beneath the black boughs of Umiaki? Kellhus could remember rising from Serwe's corpse, the hands wrapping him in white linen. He could remember blinking at the flash of sunlight through the leafy gloom. He could remember walking walking when he should be dead, and seeing them in their thousands, the Men of the Tusk, crying out in astonishment and relief and exultation-in when he should be dead, and seeing them in their thousands, the Men of the Tusk, crying out in astonishment and relief and exultation-in awe awe ... ...

"There's more, more, Father. You're Cishaurim. You must know this." Father. You're Cishaurim. You must know this."

He could remember the voice.

WHAT DO YOU SEE?.

Even without eyes, his father's face still seemed to scrutinize scrutinize. "You refer to your visions, the voice from nowhere. But tell me, where is your proof? What a.s.sures your claim over those who are simply mad?"

TELL ME.

a.s.surance? What a.s.surance did he have? When the real punished, the soul denied. He had seen it so many times in so many eyes ... So how could he be so certain?

"But on the Plains of Mengedda," he said. "The Shrial Knights ... What I prophesied came to pa.s.s." To the worldborn these words would have sounded blank, devoid of concern or occasion. But to a Dunyain ...

Let him think I waver.

"A fortuitous Correspondence of Cause," Moenghus replied, "nothing more. That which comes before yet determines that which comes after. How else could you have achieved all that you have achieved? How else could you be possible?"

He was right. Prophecy could not be could not be. If the ends of things governed their beginnings, if what came after what came after determined what came before, then how could he have mastered the souls of so many? And how could the Thousandfold Thought come to rule the Three Seas? The Principle of Before and After simply determined what came before, then how could he have mastered the souls of so many? And how could the Thousandfold Thought come to rule the Three Seas? The Principle of Before and After simply had to be true, had to be true, if its presumption could so empower ... if its presumption could so empower ...

His father had to be right.

So what was this certainty, this immovable conviction, that he was wrong? that he was wrong?

Am I mad?

"The Dunyain," Moenghus continued, "think the world closed, that the mundane is all there is, and in this they are most certainly wrong. This world is open, open, and our souls stand astride its bounds. But what lies Outside, Kellhus, is no more than a fractured and distorted reflection of what lies within. I have searched, for nearly the length of your entire life, and I have found nothing that contradicts the Principle. and our souls stand astride its bounds. But what lies Outside, Kellhus, is no more than a fractured and distorted reflection of what lies within. I have searched, for nearly the length of your entire life, and I have found nothing that contradicts the Principle.

"Men cannot see this because of their native incapacities. They attend only to what confirms their fears and their desires, and what contradicts they either dismiss or overlook. They are bent upon affirmation. The priests crow over this or that incident, while they pa.s.s over all others in silence. I have watched, watched, my son, for years I have my son, for years I have counted, counted, and the world shows no favour. It is perfectly indifferent to the tantrums of men. and the world shows no favour. It is perfectly indifferent to the tantrums of men.

"The G.o.d sleeps sleeps ... It has ever been thus. Only by striving for the Absolute may we awaken Him. Meaning. Purpose. These words name not something given ... no, they name our task." ... It has ever been thus. Only by striving for the Absolute may we awaken Him. Meaning. Purpose. These words name not something given ... no, they name our task."

Kellhus stood motionless.

"Set aside your conviction," Moenghus said, "for the feeling feeling of certainty is no more a marker of truth than the feeling of will is a marker of freedom. Deceived men of certainty is no more a marker of truth than the feeling of will is a marker of freedom. Deceived men always think themselves certain, always think themselves certain, just as they always think themselves free. This is simply what it means to be deceived." just as they always think themselves free. This is simply what it means to be deceived."

Kellhus looked to the haloes about his hands, wondered that they could be light and yet cast no light, throw no shadow ... The light of delusion.

"But we, we, my son, do not have the luxury of error. Void ... void has come to this world. It fell from the skies thousands of years past. Twice it has reared from the ashes of its falling: the first time in what the Mandate call the Cuno-Inchoroi Wars, the second time in what they call the First Apocalypse. It is about to arise a third time." my son, do not have the luxury of error. Void ... void has come to this world. It fell from the skies thousands of years past. Twice it has reared from the ashes of its falling: the first time in what the Mandate call the Cuno-Inchoroi Wars, the second time in what they call the First Apocalypse. It is about to arise a third time."

"Yes," Kellhus murmured. "He speaks to me as well."

WHAT AM I?.

"The No-G.o.d?" Moenghus asked. He paused momentarily. Had his father possessed eyes, Kellhus was certain he would have seen them fall in and out of focus as the consciousness within rose and submerged. "Then you truly are are mad." mad."

The shouts were everywhere, descending from blinding, blinking sunlight.

"Emperor! G.o.d-of-Men!"

His men ... his glorious Columnaries, come to save him.

"He's dead! No-no-no!"

"Sweet Sejenus, our prayers have been answered!"

"Sedition! I should run you-"

"What? You think I value my skin over my so-!"

"He's right! We all know it. We've all been thinking-"

"Then you're all guilty of treason!"

"Are we? And what of this madman? What kind of fool would trade souls for ink and glo-"

"Exactly! I'll be hanged before I fight for Fanim pigs! What? Risk my life to fight for my own d.a.m.nation?"

"He's right! He's ri-"

"Look!" a voice cried immediately above him. "He moves!"

For a moment Conphas could hear nothing for the ringing in his ears. Then there were arms and hands, many of them, dragging him by his harness. His heels bounced over turf. All he could think was to hold fast his Chorae. What had happened? What had happened?

He glimpsed his hands, which he had raised to his face, saw his Trinket, greasy with blood. He cried out, sick with sudden certainty of his doom. His heart felt like a sparrow battling in his breast.

I'm dead! I've been slain!

Then he remembered, and he was fighting, striking away hovering hands.

Drusas Achamian.

"Kill him!" he barked, pressing himself to his feet. Columnaries and officers surrounded him, gawking in wonder and terror. Men of the Selial Column. Conphas s.n.a.t.c.hed the cloak of one, used it to mop the blood from his face and neck. Cememketri's blood-the imbecile! Useless! Feeble!

"Kill him!"

But only a few matched his gaze; the others looked past him, toward the rounded summit. He noticed the strange shadows that played about all of their feet. The ringing in his ears fell away and Conphas heard it, the thrum of their otherworldly song. Whirling, he saw Saik Schoolmen astride the sky, pitching sorcerous ruin over the far side of the humped pasture. As he watched, one of the black-robed sorcerers foundered, his Wards crumbling beneath a calligraphy of linear lights. He fell flaming to the ground.

As would the others. Four Anagogic sorcerers would not be enough, not against the Gnosis. Conphas cursed himself for dividing the Imperial Saik between the Columns. With the Cishaurim and the Scarlet Spires locked in mortal struggle, he had a.s.sumed that ... that ...

This isn't happening ... not to me!

"My Chorae," he said numbly. "Where are my crossbowmen?"

No one could answer-of course. All was in disarray. The Mandate filth had obliterated his entire command. The Emperor's own standard own standard had vanished in an eruption of fire. The sacred standard destroyed! He turned from the spectacle, scanned the surrounding fields and pastures. Kidruhil fled to the south-fled! Three of his Columns had halted, while the phalanxes of the farthest, the Nasueret, actually seemed to be withdrawing. had vanished in an eruption of fire. The sacred standard destroyed! He turned from the spectacle, scanned the surrounding fields and pastures. Kidruhil fled to the south-fled! Three of his Columns had halted, while the phalanxes of the farthest, the Nasueret, actually seemed to be withdrawing.

They thought he was dead.

Laughing, he pressed his way through the clutch of soldiers, opened his bloodied arms to the far-flung ranks of the Imperial Army. He hesitated at the sight of white-garbed hors.e.m.e.n cresting the far rise, but only for a heartbeat.

"Your Emperor has survived!" he roared. he roared. "The Lion of Kiyuth lives!" "The Lion of Kiyuth lives!"

Flames, tongues wrapped about golden tongues, spitting plumes of smoke into the sky.

Without any apparent signal, the Thunyeri began advancing, hundreds of them, spilling into the trenches, climbing debris slopes, leaping through windows stranded in solitary walls. They raised no battle cry. Like wolves, they floated soundlessly forward.

The Cishaurim recollected themselves. Gouts of light plummeted across the smashed landscape, fell among the rushing Norsirai warriors. Keening screams. Shadows thrashing in boiling light. For heartbeats, all the Grandmaster could do was stare dumbfounded. He saw one barbarian, his beard and hair aflame, stumble across the pitch of fallen walls, still holding a Circ.u.mfix banner high.

Without warning, the deluge found Eleazaras once again, arcs of inchoate energy that cracked and shattered his Wards. He cried out his song, propping and renewing, all the while knowing it would not be enough. How had their foemen become so strong?

But then the dread lights were halved, then halved yet again. Gasping, Eleazaras glimpsed the giant Yalgrota, soot-blackened and blood-smeared, heaving Fanfarokar into the air by the throat. The asps flailed. Fist closed about a Chorae, the Thunyeri giant hammered the shaven skull into sopping ruin. Eleazaras whirled, searching the heaped darkness for threats, saw Seokti floating backward before a rush of black shadows ... toward the fires that fenced the sloped foundations of the Sacred Heights. He saw the remaining cadres of his brothers-so few!-light up in renewed fury.

"Fight!" he thundered in a sorcerous voice. "Fight, Schoolmen, fight fight!"

Out of his entire cadre, only one of his shield-bearers remained, cringing at his feet. He had no idea what had happened to the others.

Cursing the fool, the Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires stepped into the smoke-rent sky.

The white roar of battle.

Felled by heathen arrows, men toppled from the heights of the aqueduct onto the straining ma.s.ses below. Swords and scimitars rising and falling, throwing blood into black skies. Shields braced against the necks of maddened horses. Astonished men, gauntlets pressed against mortal wounds. Raging men, hacking and hammering at the crush before them. Weeping men, dragging the lolling corpses of their lords.

Then the Fanim fell back, leaving the fallen curled and stretched across the ground behind them. They retreated as waters might from the breakers. All along the Skilura Aqueduct, the Inrithi roared in exultation. One of the Numaineiri stepped forward and, waving his sword back and forth, cried, "Wait! You forgot your blood!"

Hundreds laughed.

The dead were culled from the ranks. Messengers were dispatched along the rear of the line. For seven seasons the Men of the Tusk had lived and breathed war. The routines seemed as near to them as their bones and blood. More Inrithi climbed to the rutted heights of what had become their wall, where the sight of the Fanim ma.s.sing and reforming across the fields stole their breath.

Horns signalled. Someone, somewhere, resumed their song.

We shall raise glory to the morrow, we shall bring fury to the now.

Out of bowshot, the Fanim congregated anew about their bright banners. For a short time, only the south saw battle as Ansacer led his cohorts, men as hard-bitten as the idolaters, up the pastures that ramped the Shrine of Azoreah. Though dreadfully outnumbered, Lord Gotian and his Shrial Knights sailed down the slopes toward him. "G.o.d," "G.o.d," the warrior monks cried, the warrior monks cried, "wills it!" "wills it!" And they met, hammer to hammer. Along the length of the aqueduct, the Men of the Tusk cheered at the sight of heathen fleeing back down the slopes. And they met, hammer to hammer. Along the length of the aqueduct, the Men of the Tusk cheered at the sight of heathen fleeing back down the slopes.